


Recalled in Tranquility

by Fluencca



Series: Steve Rogers: Learning Empathy [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (offscreen) - Freeform, (vaguely) - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), The Raft Prison (Marvel), Tony Stark Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 12:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15685821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: Civil-War aftermath: Steve calms down, and begins to think. He doesn't love what he finds.A contemplation of what made him write that letter, what he thought he was doing, and how he got the other Rogue Avengers out of the Raft.





	Recalled in Tranquility

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still trying to teach Steve some empathy, to make the ending of Civil War somehow half-way okay. I really want to like him, this is me trying to.

It was actually Bucky who made him write that letter.

Steve hadn’t realized it at the time, but he broached the topic for the first time on their flight over to Wakanda.

T’Challa had extended the invitation to Bucky, but allowed Steve to come along despite his fugitive status. It was a kindness Steve hadn’t been expecting, and was grateful for.

They followed behind the king’s single-passenger flier, the sophisticated tech on the quinjet easily tracking T’Challa’s vehicle while maintaining a discreet distance. They settled in for a long flight.

About two hours in, Bucky finally spoke.

“You went pretty hard after Stark, back there.”

Steve looked up sharply, pulled from his eerily similar reverie. He was still reeling from the intensity of that blowout. What Stark had done to Bucky, to him; he’d been running defensive mode since he realized what Zemo had planned. When that video began playing he knew he should be formulating a plan, some way to mitigate what was on it, but all he could think was different variations of _no, no, no_.

He wasn’t even sure if he was more horrified that Tony would find out about his parents or that Steve had lied. He could sense the uncoiling of something dark and unpleasant inside him—shame, he thought—but pushed down on it, hard. This wasn’t about his lies coming to light, it was about Stark, and whether or not he’d allow Zemo to dictate his actions.

Apparently, he would.

The fight had been brutal, but then, so had Stark. He spared no trick, tech, or mercy when going after Bucky, and it just wasn’t right. Not only because it wasn’t Bucky who had done those horrible things; that was the least of it. Steve doubted that Tony could kill Bucky even if he’d been allowed to go at it unhindered. No, the thing was, he knew what it would do to Stark.

He wasn’t blind. He’d seen how Tony had reacted when Coulson died, a man he barely knew. He knew Tony felt personally responsible for the devastation that rained down on the city from the portal over his tower. He knew that Tony only signed the Accords out of guilt over what happened in Sokovia, the innocent lives lost when Ultron decided to usher in a new age for mankind.

Steve knew, as surely as he felt that the Accords were _wrong_ , that if Stark killed Bucky he’d regret it. Eventually he’d realize that Bucky was no more responsible for Howard and Miriam ( _Marina? Mia?_ ) than Tony himself had been for Ultron. It was another element of this era’s monstrous religiosity of science that Steve detested, but had to learn to live with: mind-control was real, and the fault lay with the person wielding it, not the victim. He knew Tony would come to the same realization, he’d even tried to help him there. But Stark was beyond reason, and he fought like it.

And if he couldn’t save Stark from himself, he’d at least do what he could to save Bucky from him.

He touched a hand to his temple before he answered Bucky, as though to remind himself why he’d fought so ferociously. Why he hadn’t had a choice. When he spoke his words were a little slurred, a little unclear due to his busted lip, but he knew Bucky would understand him.

“He tried to kill you, Buck.”

Bucky gave a small laugh. A snort, almost. “If only. So is he—is Stark like us, somehow? Did someone manage to recreate the serum?”

The question caught Steve off-guard. No one was like them. That’s part of what made the thought of losing Bucky tighten his chest worse than the thought of his own death ever could.

Steve shook his head. “No, Buck. He’s got that suit that makes him much stronger than he should be, but there’s no one like us.”

Bucky turned so he was fully facing Steve. He used his good hand to brush the hair away from his face before he spoke. _The better to see you, my dear,_ Steve thought, surprising himself. But Bucky did look like a wolf just then, sniffing out his prey.

“So he’s _just a guy_?”

Steve let out a harsh laugh.

“Of course not. He’s Iron Man,” he said. And it was true. Stark was the only man who could face Steve, who in fact had made it his mission to get in Steve’s face. Tony could handle him, of that Steve had no doubt.

Bucky leaned back in the pilot’s seat, and beside him Steve did the same, closing his eyes in an attempt to invite sleep. Even through his fitful nap, he could feel Bucky’s eyes on him.

~*~

He brought it up again two days later.

They were having breakfast just the two of them today, which was nice. Yesterday Bucky had been summoned to dine with T’Challa, which made sense but also made Steve feel rather redundant.

Today they sat in one of the dining rooms of what qualified as the Palace. It was like no Palace Steve had ever seen, though, or even heard of. There were no wall-hangings, no cold stone walls, and no armored sentries. Just sleek technology and tastefully decorated rooms, not unlike the Compound.

The bedrooms were similarly tasteful, and Steve was surprised that he had a hard time sleeping in them.  There was no steady thump of cadets doing PT in the early morning hours, no work sounds coming from R&D, no faint hum of Rhodey grinding the coffee three times before he considered it suitable for brewing. He missed it, and he hadn’t missed a bed since 1942.

But he was better off than his friends were, he was certain, so he didn’t complain. He wouldn’t dare.

Bucky wasn’t looking at Steve when he spoke that morning. He was casually—too casually, Steve would later think—moving eggs around his plate. Steve couldn’t fathom why he’d taken such a massive, heaping pile of them, until he saw Bucky eat. With nothing to leverage his fork against, he could only scoop or spear a third of each helping, maybe. A felt burning rage against Stark, again, so he misconstrued Bucky’s question as a need for reassurance.

“Would you have killed Stark, if he’d killed me?”

“Does it matter? He didn’t, we stopped him.” Steve shoveled food into his mouth to stave off a follow up.

“Humor me, Steve.”

Steve sighed, and thought about it for a minute. He wanted to balance assuring Buck with the truth. _For a change_ , he thought. When had that happened? He’d always told the truth.

“I—I don’t know, Buck. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t, Stark dying wouldn’t bring you back.

“But… I was just so furious with him, Bucky. He _knew_ it wasn’t you who k—did those things, and he still didn’t have enough self-control to contain himself. Even thinking about it now, it just makes me so _angry._ I might have killed him, yes.” Steve hadn’t known he was still angry until he said it, but it was true.

“Even though he was out of his mind with grief?”

“If he’d killed you? I don’t think that would have mattered to me, Buck. You’re my oldest friend,” Steve said, and looked up to see Bucky placing his napkin neatly on the table, and standing up.

“And Maria was his mom, Steve,” Bucky said softly, but unmitigated by doubt.

“I got to go get my brain mapped by some kid, I’ll catch you later, man,” Bucky added, and left. Steve remained in that dining room long past the morning hours.

~*~

He spent a couple of weeks reading up whatever the internet had about Tony’s parents. There was plenty about Howard, which wasn’t very helpful; he already knew about him. There was less about _Maria_ , but it was enough. In every photo of the three Starks, Tony always leaned a bit towards his mother. Her hand was always gently, sometimes almost imperceptibly, on him. And in the rarer images of just the two of them… They were the only photos out of the thousands available online where Tony smiled unreservedly. Non-sarcastically. Happily.

He also found out what happened to his fellow Avengers. For a day or so, all his anger toward Stark returned in force. He wished for one more round with him, for one more shot to wipe that smug look off his face… _The Raft?_ How could he think that was fair or proportionate or _sane_? 

It was a dinner with T’Challa that cooled him off enough to actually think through his fog of rage.

Steve had tried to make small talk, and failed miserably. So he’d asked about what was on his mind. He asked about the Avengers that got arrested.

“Stark did not make them criminals. Nor did their opposition to the Accords. But to fight against the will of over one hundred sovereign nations, on these nations’ very soil? It is an outrage. Prison is a kindness that Wakanda would not have offered. And will not,” he added, and Steve heard the casual undertones of a warning that would not be issued a second time.

“But the Raft? That’s for criminals, insane, super-villains, not… Political dissidents. It’s just another example of what’s wrong with the Accords. They’re a way to subdue and control, not just track. What happens when aliens attack a brown country? Or a poor one? Can you promise the UN would send us there?”

T’Challa ignored the second part of Steve’s accusation. “The Red Witch had been offered a kinder prison, Captain, and she refused it. She has no grounds for complaint, now. And as for the rest of your team—I agree.”

Steve raised his eyes, looking to Bucky for a moment to double-check that he had heard it, too. Judging by the way his black eyes were taking in the scene, he had.

“If only there were someone who had the means to get them out, I would not be overly distressed about it,” T’Challa said, and Steve felt a weight lift from deep inside him. He could undo some of the immense damage he’d caused. He could actually do some _good_.

“Even the Red Witch, if her activity can be vouched for by a senior former-Avenger.”

Steve realized two things in that moment. The first was that everyone saw Wanda differently than he did. He wondered if maybe Stark and T’Challa, two of the most capable men he knew, might not both be wrong.

The second thing he realized was that he was no longer an Avenger.

It hurt.

Deeper than losing Peggy (twice), sharper than the fear of losing Bucky, and colder than the ice ever could be.

It hurt.

~*~

The next time Steve and Bucky talked about it, it was because Steve brought it up. He’d done some thinking, and some reading, and he could feel his mind changing even though he didn’t want to admit it. At least, he didn’t want to call it that.

That was why he went to find Bucky. He needed a push, and Buck was never shy about pushing.

He found him sitting outside Shuri’s lab, sitting on the floor with his back to the darkened glass of the lab walls. Steve sat next to him.

“Everything okay?”

“I’ll tell you in a bit, Stevie. What’s up?”

“You think I was too hard on Stark?”

Bucky looked at him sideways, without really turning his head.

“I think that I wouldn’t want that shield thrown at _me_ like that, and I’m not entirely certain I can die.”

Steve didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. He could imagine his slightly curled upper lip, his head bobbing emphatically as he spoke, the eyes narrowed in humor that hid a dead-serious truth.

“How do I make it right?”

“Same way you made it right when you broke those milk bottles of that snooty doctor on Bergen Street, man.”

 _Apologize_. How had that not occurred to Steve? He honestly didn’t know what he’d do without Bucky.

Who then explained to him that he decided to go back under.

~*~

Steve planned the escape while he wrote the letter. He actually found that working on one helped him focus and sharpen his thoughts on the other.

He completed his letter two days before Bucky would be cryogenically frozen again. He showed it to him over the last breakfast Buck would have for a while; he had to be frozen after a twenty-four hour fast.

Bucky put down his fork, then shook out the paper so it would remain readable as he held it with one hand.

Steve could see his eyes glance over it once, then twice, before he responded.

 _“Dear Tony_ , solid start, I guess.

“ _I hope you made it out of Siberia okay—that was no weather to be stuck in without backup._ Who left him there without backup, Stevie?”

Steve opened his mouth to argue that he himself had injured and preoccupied, then snapped it shut. T’Challa was hunting down his father’s actual murderer, and he’d managed to call in extraction for Tony. Steve looked down, away, ashamed.

“ _I know you were hurt by what happened,_ can you take any less responsibility, there? This wasn’t a hurricane, Steve. It was something you and I—mostly I—did to him.

“ _But I hope you can agree that I did the r—_ Okay, I can’t. Steve, I know you better than this,” Bucky said, slapping the paper down beside his plate. “You were the kindest, softest kid in Brooklyn, and I mean that in a good way. Stop trying to be _right_ , and just be a friend to him. What would you want to hear if you just saw some kill me, and Stark just _let him go?_ Worse, if he beat you half to death and left you there, so he could go take care of the killer? That’s the story here, that’s the 411.

“Stop being Captain America for five goddamn minutes, and just be Stevie for a bit. He was always the best part of you.”

Bucky shook the hair out of his face and resumed eating. He didn’t return the draft to Steve, which was a kindness. He never wanted to see that sheet of paper again.

He went back to his rooms.

He closed his eyes, and tried, really tried to imagine what would make the pit in his own gut disappear. What would make this thing between them a little less… terribly charged? What could he possibly say to Tony to begin to make up for all the mistakes he suddenly saw so clearly, suddenly heard narrated to him in Bucky’s clear, strong voice?

“Dear” was an affection, a sort of owning he’d have to earn back.

What did he risk his life for? What was he going to risk his life for again, in just a few short days? People. Tony was similar, he knew.

And he tried to give Tony the one thing he himself wanted most of all, the one thing he’d missed since before the ice, the only place that was ever really home to him. He would give him that. Steve wouldn’t try to claim the Avengers or the Compound, because he’d sacrificed those on the altar of his beliefs. He tried to remind himself now that it had been worth it. It had to have been.

Tony, at least, deserved to have his home.

He finished the letter shortly after Bucky was frozen. He hoped he got to see him again, although Steve knew that it really was for the best. Even if it took him twice as long as Bucky to acknowledge it. Not much changed in eighty years, he thought.

 

Tony,

I’m glad you’re back at the Compound, I don’t like the idea of you rattling around a mansion by yourself.

We all need family. The Avengers are yours, maybe more so than mine. I’ve been on my own since I was 18. I never really fit in anywhere – even in the Army. My faith is in people, I guess. Individuals. And I’m happy to say for the most part, they haven’t let me down. Which is why I can’t let them down either.

Locks can be replaced, but maybe they shouldn’t. I know I hurt you Tony. I guess I thought by not telling you about your parents I was sparing you, but I can see now I was really sparing myself. I’m sorry.

Hopefully one day you can understand. I wish we agreed on the Accords, I really do. I know you were only doing what you believe in, and that’s all any of us can do, it’s all any of us should. So no matter what, I promise if you – if you need us. If you need me, I’ll be there.

~*~

The actual break-in to the Raft had been laughably easy, but that was never going to be the hard part.

He’d learned the location from T’Challa, stealing it from his secret servers with supposed skill he didn’t -have; in truth, he’d been handed a file and told that a cyber-attack would be reported.

T’Challa had made it clear that this is where his assistance ended. Bucky was welcome in Wakanda until they could remove the programming. Steve was not.

He’d done what he could in advance. Primarily, carefully timing the arrival of the letter at the Compound. He knew he couldn’t get the others out on his own. The Raft had redundancies piled atop one another like no other prison in the world. It had been designed to avoid breakouts just as much as to discourage outside break- _ins_.

So he did what he did best. He put his trust in people.

The topside surfacing was supposed to last 480 seconds. That was how long it took to replenish the air supply, dump the waste, and receive meticulously coordinated supply-drops.

Steve dropped onto the slowly rising Raft just as soon as it broke the surface, then sent the quinjet to hover a quarter mile to the west. It meant that they’d have to swim once they were out (if, there was a very big _if_ there), but it was worth maintaining the element of the surprise. On a night like this, it seemed to be the only element on his side.

As soon as he rolled to his feet he found the main hatch, and pulled it open. The metal broke easily beneath his grip, and he felt a momentary flash of gratification mixed with shame that he could have thought otherwise; there is no way Tony had _anything_ to do with the original construction of this prison. He’d never allow such a faulty design to be the first line of defense.

But he pushed the thought aside, because now he was on the clock.

According to T’Challa’s file, he had 84 seconds before word of the breach got back to land. Another thirty-to-fifty seconds as they verified the level of threat. And then _maybe_ 60 seconds before Tony was asked to come in, and to implement the secondary and tertiary security measures he had been contractually required to instate: the onboard arc reactor would be used to supplement power to the cells and reinforce every locking mechanism on site, but it could only be initiated by Stark’s personal codes. Not only that, but Stark satellites would track any vehicles leaving the raft. Those measures would be his downfall.

All in all, Steve figured it was less than five minutes before the place shut down on them, but closer to three if he was being realistic.

He got moving.

The Avengers were being kept in the third level from the bottom, which meant of course a lot of stairwell fighting for Steve. He had gone out of his way to disable to communication deck officers, but not before they’d gotten out their distress beacon.

Tick-tock.

He subdued any guard that crossed his path with a casual fist, barely slowing down as they crumbled down flights of stairs or over bannisters. As far as Steve was concerned, agreeing to imprison people whose only crime was to refuse being used as pawns made them worse than Nazis.

The junction box was easy to find, and easier to dismantle. He gave a slightly ironic thanks to Stark for teaching him how to do that.

He had about 90 seconds.

The guards were on alert, but Steve crushed them like so many roaches.

Sixty seconds.

He got Sam first. Steve would get them all out or get caught trying, he’d decided as much before he ever began planning. But Sam’s unquestioning loyalty deserved to be rewarded, even if only by gesture. It was literally the least Steve could do.

With the power cut, the glass that separated them withstood little chance. It took a few seconds longer than he expected, though, because he reached for his shield before remembering that it wasn’t on his back. He inhaled sharply and held it, fighting back panic and reminding himself that it wasn’t supposed to be there. He left it behind with Tony in a dead fortress. About five seconds of horror, panic, resignation and action.

Those seconds almost cost him everything.

Sam and Steve both got Wanda, Steve holding her in a mockery of an embrace has he pulled at the straps of her… Steve swallowed at the word, reluctant to even think it; the straps of her _straightjacket._ How long had she been kept like that, bound like an animal? Surely, there must be some better way to contain her power. If anyone had bothered to look. Wanda stumbled as she stood up, and leaned heavily on Sam. God, has she not _walked_ in all this time?

But her fingers were sizzling red before she was fully out of her cell, and she wordlessly melted the wall to Scott’s left. He stepped out through Sam’s already shattered door.

The darkened cell-block began lighting up from the far end, the lights marching up to meet them, to trap them. There was no tell-tale hum of a generator, though. No, this was the arc-reactor kicking in.

“Start making your way up. You should be able to make it.” Steve handed Sam a gun and a beeping device to guide them to the quinjet. “I’ll grab Barton and we’ll be right behind you.”

Scott was already climbing the steep stairs, Wanda close behind him. Sam nodded once, and turned to leave, but Steve grabbed his arm and pulled him close.

“Three minutes, Wilson. No more. You get them out of here,” he whispered. He gripped Sam’s arm a little stronger, hoping it said everything he wanted it to. Hoping Sam would understand.

Sam’s own grip tightened around Steve’s forearm, and he left.

Steve turned to Clint. He had been standing expectantly in his cell, but he could see the lights coming back on, the red emergency lights silently blaring their warning of intrusion, the _damned_ little blue light on the door of his cell flicker back on. He could hear the lock reengaging. He sat back on his little bench ( _bed?_ ) and folded his arms across his chest.

“Get out of here, Cap. There’s no need for both of us to rot in this hellhole. Go help the others.” He sounded… perfectly fine, actually, which made Steve wonder how many times he put on this brave face without anyone knowing. Without Steve knowing, at least.

_Some leader._

“No can do, Barton. This team… I’m done letting the team take hits to protect myself. If you stay, I stay.”

The cameras came online, an audible _hummm_ filling the air as they turned every which way, systematically assessing the cells in range.

Steve sat on the floor next to Clint’s cell, careful not to lean against the glass. He could hear the slight buzz of live electricity. He was sure he’d get enough of that in the coming—well, years—no need to get a head start.

Barton leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. When he spoke, he sounded less fine.

“Cut the crap, Cap. We joined you because of _us,_ you don’t get to take that decision away from us, even when things go pear-shaped. Especially then. You get your super-soldier ass out of here, and if you get a chance, contact Laura. Tell—Tell her, I—“

“Barton.”

Steve’s ears were pounding when Barton spoke, his heartbeat an indictment of all the things Clint didn’t know, couldn’t know, when absolute _silence_ cut through it like nothing shriller could.

The door stopped buzzing. Steve looked up sharply, and in a single glance took in the dead light on the door, and the cameras that were all pointing elsewhere.

The door clicked open.

Barton didn’t move. His eyes turned to Steve, scared, but calm. “Is this a trap?”

“No,” Steve said, as he shot to his feet and confidently pulled the door open. Whatever charge it held was gone for the moment. If he had to guess he’d say it would be gone for as long as they needed. He grabbed Clint’s arm and pulled him close.

“This is Stark.”

~*~

They all made it out.

Steve could hardly believe it, even after three weeks of hiding, even though the news had gradually stopped reporting about the Rogue Avengers in favor of some Kardashian ventures.

A month after the breakout, they decided it would be safest to part ways.

Natasha and Clint had managed to find one another, using technology that was both too sophisticated and too simple for Steve to follow. They were about to strike out on their own, when T’Challa contacted Steve.

A deal was on the table.

It wasn’t clear who had instigated it, or for what purpose, and it was only on offer for Clint and Scott. But as a gesture of goodwill, Ross was willing to drop the charges from treason to firearms possession without license. The _goodwill_ was mindboggling, considering the man had previously held them without trial in what was probably an unconstitutional prison. In return, they had to agree to house-arrest. That was it. It took six more weeks to hash out all the details, and the group often wondered what Ross’s angle was, or who was pulling his strings.

Steve thought he knew. Natasha would sometimes give him a hooded glance that suggested that she did, too.

Or not. She was hard to read.

Once Barton and Lang were gone, their plans changed again.

Natasha agreed to keep an eye on Wanda, and Wanda agreed to keep her head down. Steve shared enough of Bucky’s story to extract a promise from her to never use mind manipulations, ever again. Because he knew, he _understood_ now that whatever damage was done, even far down the line, the responsibility traced back to her. In his books, she and her brother already made amends for Ultron. Going forward, though…

He told her as much, and he thought he scared her enough for her to mean her promise. He hoped so.

Three months after the breakout, it was just him and Sam. He tried to convince Sam to apply for some kind of deal, too, but all he said to that was, “Fuck that with a pogo-stick, Cap. I’m with you till we get off this ride.” It was too similar to what Bucky used to tell him for Steve to argue.

The months that followed were long. Slow. He kept track of the others, but only T’Challa and… Only a couple of people could contact him directly. He knew he was public enemy number one, if only for the government to save face. He wouldn’t endanger the others by letting them know where he was.

He checked his matching flip-phone every day. When Sam mentioned it to him, he hid the phone away and checked it more sparingly.

Eventually, he stopped checking, but made sure that the phone was always charged, always on, always in his pocket.

Two years later, it rang.

Steve’s stomach dropped and his heart felt like a ton of lead in his chest, but couldn’t help but smile broadly when he saw _TSTARK_ flash across the screen.

“Tony,” he said, softly, gratefully.

What was left of his world came crashing down, burying him alive.  

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I think that Steve needs Tony is a way he doesn't quite get. He likes to pretend they're equals so he's not so alone, all the time.  
> 2\. In my head-canon, Steve never learned empathy. It wasn't the done thing to teach young boys in the 1920s, and in that sense he is a bit insensitive to things, just like everyone's grandpas are. It's not his fault, but he needs to learn. 
> 
> These are two points I tried to explore, and I hope they carry through. 
> 
> Comments, notes, ideas, corrections and comments are always welcome!


End file.
